With the water quelching in his boots (which were worn away to the welting)—for the sky was like the pulp of an orange, and the pavement wanted draining—he turned in at a little gate near the temporary terminus of the West London line. In a wooden box, with a kitchen behind it, he found Mr. Clinkers; who thought, when he saw Cradʼs face, that he was come to give a large order; and when he saw his boots, that he was come to ask to be errand–boy. Clinkers was a familiar, jocular, red–faced fellow, whom his friends were fond of calling “not at all a bad sort.” “Take a glass, mister,” said he, when Cradock had stated his purpose; “wonʼt do you no harm such a day as this, and I donʼt fancy ‘twould me either. Jenny! Jenny! Why, bless that gal; ever since my poor wife died, sheʼs along of them small–coals fellows. Iʼll bet a tanner she is. What do you say to it, sir? Will you bet?” “Well,” replied Cradock, smiling, “it wouldnʼt be at all a fair bet. In the first place, I know nothing of Miss Jennyʼs propensities; and, in the second, I have no idea what the small–coals fellows are.” The small–coals men are the truck–drivers and the greengrocers in the by–streets, who buy the crushings and riddlings by the sack, at the wharf or terminus, and sell them by the quarter hundred–weight, weight, at a profit of two hundred per cent. Cradock might have known this, but the Ducksacre firm was reticent upon some little matters. Mr. Clinkers could not stop to explain; only he said to himself, “Pretty fellow to apply for a clerkship in the coal–line, and not know that!” Jenny appeared at last, looking perfectly self–possessed. “Jenny, you baggage, two tumblers and silver teaspoons in no time. And the _little_ kettle; mind now, I tell you the _little_ kettle. Canʼt you understand, gal, that I may want to shave with the water, but ainʼt going to have the foot–tub?” Jennyʼs broad face, mapped with coal–dust, grinned from ear to ear, as she looked at her master saucily—a proof almost infallible of a very genial government. She heard that shaving joke every day, and, the more she heard it, the more she enjoyed it. So the British public, at a theatre, or an election, appreciates a joke according to the square of the number of the times the joke has been poked at it. Hurrah for the slow perception, and the blunt knife that opens the oyster! “Queer gal, that,” said Clinkers, producing his raw material; “uncommon queer gal, sir, as any you may have met with.” “No doubt of it,” replied Cradock; “and now for the cause of my visit——” “Hang me, sir, you donʼt understand that gal. I say she is the queerest gal that ever lived out of a barge. You should see her when she gets along of some of them small–coals fellows. Blow me if she canʼt twist a dozen of them round her finger, sir.” “And her master too,” thought Cradock; “unless I am much mistaken, she will be the new Mrs. Clinkers.”